Arctos: Second Life Thrift (Part 1)

Well, he’d made it. Life as a single dad wasn’t what Brian had signed up for, and raising his son all these years while holding down his job had been a struggle, but the moment that he’d been aiming for was past–his son, Tim, was off to college, a find young man himself now, and Brian found himself sitting in his now much emptier house wondering, “Now what?”

He’d been ecstatic at first. Privacy! Time to finish the projects in the garage he’d started, but that had always been delayed because of Tim’s school work, or extracurricular activities, or community service work. But that eagerness lasted about a month, when the depression set in. The projects were still sitting there. Brian was spending more and more time after work just sitting in front of the TV, a microwave dinner in front of him with a beer or six, drinking and wondering why his son didn’t call him more often. Is this all he had now? He thought back to when he was younger, and all the things he’d wanted to do, a life he’d pictured for himself before his family had taken over so much, but it was hard to remember any of it. It was a ghost, really, lingering in the corners of his mind, haunting him.

He didn’t remember how he stumbled on the web site. An online ad, probably, for some service provided by a company called Arctos, and after clicking through a few links, he’d found himself poking around an online thrift shop. It was called Second Life Thrift, which seemed like rather intense branding for some second hand clothing. But one thing kept dragging his attention back, day after day–this biker jacket. It was well worn but still in decent condition from what he could see. He’d always wanted to own a motorcycle, but it had been cast off, just one dream like so many others that he’d never managed to fulfill, too busy making sure his son was provided for. But what was stopping him now, exactly? He dropped a mention of it to his son in a phone call, and Tim laughed at the thought of his dad wearing a bunch of leather and riding around on a bike. But rather than snap him out of it, it only made Brian consider it further. The price was a bit steep for second hand, but it wasn’t like you could find stuff like this at every thrift store. One night, after a couple of extra beers, he pulled the trigger on it. More likely than not he’d wear it around a bit and then it would gather dust in a closet somewhere, but at least, for the moment, he’d feel like he had control of his life again. Maybe it would pull him out of this funk, at least.

It wasn’t until he perused the confirmation email, and noticed that it had been divided into three shipments, that he realized he hadn’t just bought a leather jacket–he’d bought an entire lot of second hand goods! No wonder the price was so steep. There was no inventory of what was included, but he did figure out that the shop wasn’t so much a thrift store, as a front of estate sales. All of the goods belonged to one guy, apparently, who was, sadly, no longer alive. A bit morbid, really, but at least the name made more sense now. No wonder the shop didn’t advertise that more extensively.

A few days later, the first shipment arrived. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting, but three sizable boxes were left for him while he was at work, and he dragged them into the house. They were numbered from one to three, so he decided he might as well start with the first one. He broke the tape, opened it up, and coughed a bit from the smell–leather, but also…well, he wasn’t quite sure what the musk was rolling off the contents of the box was. He pulled the first item out, and found himself looking at the jacket he’d thought he was buying all along, so at least he had that. It…stank a bit. He’d have to get it dry cleaned at some point, but he couldn’t quite resist the desire to try it on. He did, and was a bit annoyed to find it was too big. That was the problem with buying stuff over the internet, he supposed, you never quite knew what size you were getting. If everything else was this big, well, a lot of it would be going to the dump today. Underneath the jacket was a bunch of denim jeans, all of them unwashed as far as he could tell, and covered with dirt and stiff with unidentifiable stains. He pushed them away, not really wanting to touch them, and pulled the next box over–only to be further disgusted–sitting there, right on top of the second box, was a pair of clearly soiled briefs. He didn’t move them, but under those he could see other clothes, socks, more underwear, some t-shirts, and the stench was…well, his eyes weren’t quite watering, but it wasn’t good. The third box didn’t have clothes at least, but it’s contents were no less disappointing. On top, wrapped up in some bubble wrap, was a clock, surrounded by a neon sign that said, “It’s always drinking time!” and below that, was a humidor well stocked with a collection of cigars.

Brian wasn’t much of a drinker, and he’d never smoked a cigar in his life. Still, he might be able to sell them and get the cost back for what he’d paid. For now, though, all of this was going out to the garage where it wouldn’t stink up the rest of the house, and left the jacket on top of the boxes with the rest. He’d try wearing it again after he got it cleaned up.

The rest of the evening passed normally, aside from the fact that Brian couldn’t quite shake the sensation that he wasn’t alone in the house. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt jumpy since his son had left for college, but this was different, somehow. Like there was something around him, something poking around his house, poking at him too. He probably just felt weird after going through the boxes–after all, he had a dead guy’s stuff sitting out in the garage, why wouldn’t he feel weird? He turned in a bit early, worried that he might be too unnerved to sleep, but he didn’t have trouble at all–but once he was out, that was when the dreams started.

They were intense, sexual, but when he woke up, he wouldn’t be able to remember a moment of them, but each time he’d wake up with a raging hard on, or he’d discover that he’d shot a load into his sheets like he was a teenager again. There was that presence as well, like someone lying in bed with him, but when he turned on the light, there was always nothing there. The dreams continued all week long, and by the time the weekend hit, Brian was exhausted, and all he wanted to do was get one good night’s sleep. Probably the only way he’d manage, he figured, was if he got rid of all of that shit in the garage, but while he intended to do so, in the end he spent a rather uncharacteristic weekend in front of the TV, binge drinking some cheap beer he bought at the supermarket. The presence was there, but where it had unnerved him before, he was growing more comfortable with it. It was nice, not being alone at least.

Sunday, he got more drunk than he’d ever been in his life. The last thing he really remembered was going out to the garage, putting on that leather jacket, and opening up the boxes again, allegedly to throw out the filthy clothes inside. Instead, he woke up next morning in bed, naked aside from the leather jacket, with a pair of the filthy, stained underwear pressed to his face. He sniffed them, and while the aroma hadn’t changed, his opinion of it had–he gripped his aching cock and jacked off while he sucked on the crotch of the underwear, almost like he could imagine them filled with another man’s cock, and shot all over his sheets, which he hadn’t changed all week, and were beginning to stink a bit themselves after all of these wild dreams.

Dreams like this one. It had to be a dream, right? He left the underwear there in his bed, and saw a half smoked cigar on his nightstand, resting in an ashtray he recognized as coming from the boxes. He coughed, throat scratchy and head pounding with a hangover. He stumbled out into the living room, and saw the neon sign hanging on the wall–and found a beer out of the fridge and downed it. He found his phone, dead because he hadn’t bothered to charge it, plugged it in and called work, letting them know he was sick and wouldn’t be coming in. Then he surveyed the wreckage, disgusted with his behavior.

But why? Hadn’t he enjoyed himself?

How could he know? He didn’t remember anything from the night before.

He needed to relax. No need to worry about work today, just take a load off. He was too stressed out, everything would be fine.

It seemed like a good idea. A reassuring idea. It only occurred to him later, while he was watching TV, that he wasn’t quite sure whether the thought had been his own, or come from…somewhere else. From whatever presence was around him, something he was growing more and more certain was an actual thing, and not his imagination. That should terrify him, but the more he relaxed, the more he settled down, the closer it got to him…and it was comfortable, somehow. He’d worked so hard, after all, for so long. Didn’t he deserve a chance to let go a little?

He called out of work for the rest of the week, said he was feeling like crap, and that he just needed some time for himself, which he hadn’t taken in ages. His boss was understanding–he’d been urging Brian to use some of his PTO for ages now. Without the pressure of that, Brian found he could relax even more, and soon, he’d pulled out some more gear from the boxes, and was wearing it around the house. The jeans were too loose and baggy around his ankles, but with the help of some leather suspenders he dug out, they at least stayed up. The shirts were all too big as well and stretched out around the gut, but if you tucked them in, it wasn’t really a problem. He kept the underwear on, shoving his hand down the front, and pulling it out to sniff it. He was hungry all the time, and kept the local restaurants in business, ordering lots of food, always intending there to be leftovers, but somehow he kept devouring all of it. At the bottom of the second box, which he hadn’t excavated at first, he found a collection of DVDs, all of which were gay pornos featuring, well, bears apparently. It wasn’t a term he’d heard before, but by the end of the next weekend he’d started watching those movies more than cable.

The first week back to work was torturous. His shirts and slacks didn’t fit right after all the binging he’d done. He craved beer and cigars all day long–but worst of all, he was alone. Whatever…thing had been following him around, it didn’t go with him to work. He was angry, and frustrated, and lonely, and when he got home he stripped down, put on the biker’s clothes (which were beginning to fit him better by the day), watched porn and jacked off while he smoked, drank, and ate himself sick, all surrounded by that comfortable presence, feeling more relaxed and happy than he could remember.

It was Thursday when he arrived home and found more boxes sitting outside his front door, along with something he certainly didn’t expect–a mattress. He opened up the garage door and dragged everything in before the neighbors could see everything, opened up the boxes, and took a couple of steps back when he saw everything that was inside. Dildos, plugs, sex toys all of sorts of descriptions. In another box was more leather gear, harnesses and vests, along with more denim even filthier than the stuff that had been in the first shipment. He was taken aback–he’d…let himself get carried away before this, because he felt so lonely, but this–this was too far. He wasn’t gay! Sure, the porn was…fun, but that wasn’t, he wasn’t–

“Fuck yeah, look at this stuff! They really got a hold of everything!”

Brian had turned away from the boxes to think, and when he spun back around, he froze. There, standing over the boxes was…well, he didn’t quite know what it was. A ghost, he supposed. It was an apparition or a hallucination, something standing there with all of the color drained out of it, completely naked–but judging by the size of the man, or the thing he was looking at, it was about the right size for the clothes he’d been receiving…and he…it felt like that presence he’d noticed ever since the stuff had arrived on his doorstep.

“What the fuck? What are you?”

The ghost turned, surprised to be addressed, apparently. “Fuck, ya can see me now?”

“What do you mean, now?”

“Fuck man, beats me. Last thing I remember was a real wild fuckin’ night, then I was here–you had the boxes of my stuff, and I’ve just been…hanging around, you know.”

“You–you’re the one who’s been making me…wear all of this shit, aren’t you? The dreams! I…I recognize you from them, I…I can’t remember, but…no, fuck this shit, this shit is all going to the dump, right fucking now.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” the ghost said, and drifted over to where Brian was standing, “Come on, bud. Maybe…a little, sure, but you’re the one who needed to loosen up, right? Live a little? I’m just…givin’ ya a little boost is all. Nothing serious.”

“No, I’m fucking done! I don’t know what the fuck this is, but I’m through with it,” Brian said, stepped around the ghost, picked up a box and tossed it in the back of his car. “You’re going to the dump, and I’m getting back to normal!”

The ghost kept trying to dissuade him, as Brian loaded up all the boxes that he could fit. The mattress was going to have to wait, but that would be the second trip. Before he could finish loading, however, the ghost lunged at him, and his fingers slid right into Brian’s head–and he stopped moving, his eyes and mouth going slack. “Fuck, being inside you feels so fucking good,” the ghost said, his cock growing erect and drooling a bit of ectoplasmic cum on the garage floor, “I’m not going anywhere, buddy–but why don’t you have a listen to a better idea, eh?”

Brian’s head nodded, his skull moving through the ghost’s fingers. The ghost tried to push in further, but couldn’t–but this was better. Before Brian could see him, he’d barely been able to get in him at all, and even then, only when he was sleeping. He’d been forced to just whisper to him, cajole and tempt him–it had worked, but fuck, this was going to be so much easier now. After he finished explaining to Brian what the new plan was, he drew his fingers out, and was pleased to see that the same blank expression remained across his face even without his fingers inside him. “Now, why don’t you go take care of what we agreed on, right Brian? Then we can have some more fun.”

Brian found himself returning from the dump, satisfied that he’d done what was necessary. Just…too much stuff cluttering up his house, really, so many unnecessary things. He couldn’t really…remember much of what had happened, and when he looked at the clock, he realized that it was the middle of the day of Friday–he’d forgotten about work entirely, he’d been so focused on…on getting rid of all the unnecessary stuff. The biker’s stuff, right? Oh well, he’d call and explain what had happened. Everything was going to be just fine now.

He pulled into the garage, and sure enough, the boxes were all gone. It was a relief to see that. Then he went inside the house, and his jaw dropped. “No…no no no…” he moaned, when he saw the neon drinking sign still on the wall, the porn DVDs by his TV, but everything else had been stripped from the walls. All of his books, all of his movies, his little collection of blown glass–all of it. And there, sitting on the sofa, was the ghost.

“Welcome back, Brian–feeling better now that we got rid of all of that junk?” the biker said, grinning from ear to ear.

Brian looked down, and realized he wasn’t wearing his own clothes–he was dressed in the filthiest set of jeans he’d ever seen, reeking like a urinal, leather chaps on top of them, no shirt, the leather jacket and a greasy denim vest on the outside of that. He rushed to his bedroom, and just groaned when he saw what was in there–the filthy mattress that had been delivered had replaced his own, and there, hanging from the ceiling, was a leather sex sling taking up most of the room. He opened the closet, his dresser, but all of his old clothes were gone–and the biker’s filthy gear was piled around the room in heaps. “What…what the fuck did I do?” he muttered, and the ghost came up behind him, and slid his hands back into his skull, making Brian go slackjawed again.

“Now there’s no reason to be scared, or sad, or angry. All of this was your idea. You wanted this. But don’t you think we should celebrate, Brian? I think you should throw a little party, doesn’t that sound fun?”

When Brian came back to himself, he was in the sling, wearing a harness, chaps, boots and nothing else. He struggled, but he had manacles on his arms keeping them hooked to the chain, and the ghost was there, stroking his own cock. He stepped up, and pushed inside him–it wasn’t quite like fucking, but it still felt real fucking good, and the ghost humped up against him. “I was never much of a fucker, you know,” he said, “But I just want to be inside you so bad, it’s all I can think about…” he moaned and fucked a bit harder. “You’re so tight though! I’ll…We need to loosen you up some more, and I know just the thing…”

Brian heard the front door of his house open and close–someone had just let themselves in! He struggled a bit, but the ghost passed a hand lightly through his skull, and he relaxed again. “You want this, Brian. Remember, all of this was your idea. Putting that ad up on the internet, all comers, anyone can use your dirty hole…”

A big, bearish fellow stepped into the bedroom, saw Brian hanging there, and leered at him, groping his cock before stepping up, and pushing inside Brian’s ass without much ceremony. He didn’t last long, and the thoughts of horror and disgust were slowly replaced by pure horny need. By the end of the day, with nearly ten loads drooling from his well used hole. Brian was thanking the ghost for helping him loosen up–and he spent the rest of the evening with a big plug up his ass, watching more porn, and listening to his new ghostly friend talk about his life.

The ghost’s name was Ben. He’d never had money, he’d never had much in the way of family, but he’d sure as hell had fun, riding all over the country, sucking, fucking and pissing all the way. Things had changed over the years. You had to ride deeper now to find the real freedom, now that so much shit is all the fucking same, and so damn sanitized and family friendly. But didn’t Brian want to be free? Isn’t that why he’d bought that jacket in the first place, because he knew that, somehow, it was connected to freedom?

Brian didn’t go back to work. He didn’t even bother calling to tell them he quit–what the hell did that place even matter? It was just a cage. A cage like the cars driving around on the road, the little boxes and the little boring lives that men just…accepted. That he’d accepted. But not anymore. He sold the car–couldn’t get much from it, but it was enough, and he didn’t need to go anywhere yet. All the clothes fit him perfectly now–he’d grown a few inches taller over the last few days, so the jeans hit the boots just right, and his fat gut distended the ratty bar shirts just like they had when Ben had been wearing them. It was comfortable. It was right. That’s what the ghost said, at least, and Brian was more than happy to believe him.

The last shipment would arrive any day now, and the ghost was so eager for it. Sure enough, the truck pulled up, and offloaded the ghost’s old, but reliable, motorcycle. A beat up Harley that had seen hundreds of thousands of miles, but now that it was Brian’s it would see a few hundred thousand more. There were a few boxes with the shipment as well, mostly odds and ends, but it was the bike that the ghost was obsessed with. “Come on,” he said to Brian, “Let’s take him for a ride.”

Brian climbed on, but he’d never so much as ridden a motorcycle before, much less drove one himself. But the ghost hopped up and settled on the seat behind him, and slid his arms down into Brian’s own, and he shuddered as the ghost took control of them, pushed his way into his body from the back, the biker’s big gut in the middle of his back, feet pushing into his boots–and then they were off. Whether he was in control or not–he didn’t know. It felt like it was the ghost just…guiding him along, showing him how to lean, what to twist and when, providing a steady hand. “This could be your life, you know,” the ghost whispered to him, “I’d want this for you. I had a real fucking good time when I was alive, and…I know I can’t be alive again, but you…if you let me in, this could all be yours. Really be yours.”

Brian shuddered as the bike accelerated, slipping into the other lane to breeze past a few cars, the shocked look on people’s faces as he did enough to make his cock explode in his filthy denim jeans. “Fuck–Fuck, I…I fucking do,” Brian moaned.

They pulled off the highway and found a little secluded gully, parked the bike, and Brian bent over it, pants down around his boots, while the ghost ran his hands over and through him. Brian…could tell he was a bit scared as well. Neither of them knew what this would do to them both, but they both…wanted it so badly. The biker fucked him for a while, but it wasn’t enough–they knew it wasn’t enough, so he switched to his fist, pushing it into Brian’s eager hole–maybe even more eager than the biker’s had been when he was alive, and it slid deeper and deeper, until it wouldn’t come free. Both of them panting and heaving for breath, the biker forced his way deeper in, Brian’s ass not distending so much as his mind opening up more and more. The ghost’s other arm then, both of them up to the shoulder, then his head, crawling his way into Brian’s guts, into his very being, and together, they came as the ghost disappeared inside him, beame a true part of him, and Brian collapsed to the ground, groaning in pain, ass shuddering and twitching in orgasm as well, from the sheer excitement of it.

When he stood up again, he was Brian, mostly. At least, on the outside. On the inside, well, that was difficult to say. He shook his gut, which had grown out another few inches, and let off a belch, stroked the long beard that had grown out of his face, and gave his ass a scratch before pushing a couple of fingers in. Maybe on the way home, he’d cruise a few rest areas, see what he could find, yeah, fuck, that sounded hot. By the time he got home, ass pumped full of cum, pants damp with piss that he’d been soaked in a few times, including his own which he’d let go while riding, he entered his house, picked up his phone, and found a message from his son. Fuck, he was a handsome fellow, wasn’t he? Last Brian had talked to him, he’d been struggling at school a bit, trying to figure out who he was. At the time, Brian had been struggling himself, with that same question. Well, Brian didn’t have that problem now–he knew exactly who he wanted to be. He knew exactly who his boy ought to be too. Ben had always wanted a family–when he was alive. Winter break was coming soon–and maybe, if he played his cards right, he could show his son exactly what kind of man he ought to be.

Patreon supporters already have access to the second part! They can read it here. I’ll post it for everyone else next week.

The King’s Ring (2 of 2) –

Reminder: after this weekend, all of my original content will be moving over to my main blog, @wesleybracken. Make sure you’re following me there if you don’t want to miss any posts!

He held the ring out to me, where I was kneeling. I could…sense that he wanted me to kiss it, and as soon as my lips made contact…it was like something was being sucked right out of me. My youth? My will? My identity? It…had to have only lasted a few moments, but it felt like ages, with my mouth to that cold metal, until it finally released me. “Now–another meal, slave. And then my bath.”

“Yes sir,” I said, automatically. I was still…inside my head, but I no longer had any control over myself. I stood up, feeling my knees ache slightly, and I went back to the kitchen. I was desperately trying to stop myself, to regain control, but I couldn’t. I had to obey. I was just…just a slave. An old slave faggot. I eventually saw my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall, and I would have screamed, if I could have. I…really was old, now. I must have been close to fifty. I had a silver goatee, a paunch, a thick leather collar around my neck, and shackles on my arms and legs…and my cock was locked in a chastity device. Still, I cooked feverishly, and delivered a five course meal I hadn’t even known how to cook, and he…ate all of it, all by himself, while I serviced him, and cleaned him, being sure to get between his piss soaked thighs.

When he’d finished, he again spoke. “I could do away with you entirely, you know. But he likes you, for reasons I cannot begin to fathom, and he’s much easier to control with you here. I will give you control again, but defy me one more time, and you’ll be gone. Understand, slave?”

I nodded, and I felt the other persona fade back, but my body hasn’t returned. I should be thankful, I suppose. Others who I’ve…brought here to serve our king haven’t been so lucky. I know he’s still in there, somewhere. If I could just get the ring off that finger…but the fat has grown around it. I’m afraid…it won’t be coming off until he’s dead, and who knows when that will be. The king has not let me service him since my…outburst, but he forces me to watch as the cubs pleasure him–young, mindless things who crawl over him, riding his cock and sucking his nipples, and…and fuck, if I don’t love watching it, and he knows it. He’s fucked my mind to bits–none of us do, and neither will you. I have no life other that servicing him, and finding more subjects for his kingdom. Now kiss your liege’s ring, like a good pig. We need another toilet, unfortunately, but you can be thankful–toilets don’t get minds, so you’ll be gone soon enough. Just a kiss, and everything will be over–I promise.

Source: maturemenintrouble

The King’s Ring (1 of 2) – Reminder: after this weekend, all of my original content will be moving over to my main blog, @wesleybracken. Make sure you’re following me there if you don’t want to miss any posts!

There’s something…wrong, with my boyfriend. We were a pretty normal couple, just a couple of twinks, really. We worked, went to the gym together, went clubbing and dancing on the weekend. Sure, we did drugs on occasion, but we’re young, right? But one day, he comes home with this…ring on his finger. I ask him about it, and he tells me he got it at some strange store he happened across on his way home from work, but he didn’t seem to walk to talk about it. I mean, we both wear jewelry a bit, sure, but it just seemed…old, and not at all his style. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but that…it seems like that when things started to get a bit strange.

Slowly, he stopped going to the gym. He tried to keep up for a few weeks, but he kept telling me he was just too tired, and didn’t feel like it, and he started begging off. I kept going, of course, but I’d come home, and find him on the couch…stuffing his face, and as soon as I’d arrive he’d fucking want sex! I tried to say no, but he’d always get me on my knees, sucking him off while he just…kept eating, and watching TV, like…like I didn’t even matter, and he’d never fucking reciprocate anymore. It was confusing–I was usually the top, but now, all I was doing was sucking him off, or he might, on occasion, fuck me. I…didn’t even really want to have sex with him, and he disgusted me, really, but I…couldn’t say no to him. It just didn’t feel right.

Within three months…he didn’t even look like the same person anymore. He’d packed on…I don’t know, two hundred pounds? He had a huge gut, a thick beard across his face, and hair all over his body too, which I thought was so fucking gross. I…hated him, really. I despised him, and I wanted to leave–just ditch him there, but I…couldn’t. As much as I hated it, I kept going back there, I kept sucking him off, and…and licking him clean. He wouldn’t shower anymore–he was telling me that was my job, to give him nice tongue baths every day, everywhere from between his grungy toes, to his ass crack, his pits and the deepening folds of his neck. He was enjoying humiliating me, making me worship him. I cook for him constantly, whenever I’m home–hell, he’s forbidden me from going to the gym now, because he needs more and more food! But tonight…tonight, something in me just fucking snapped.

He’d…pissed himself on the sofa, and was just lying in it. I was so utterly disgusted by it, that I just started screaming at him, shouting, calling him every cruel name I could think of, and tell him I was done, that I was done with him, that if he wanted to be some slob, he could do it alone. Finally I stopped, and tried to move my feet, tried to leave…but I couldn’t. And he’s just…laughing at me. It doesn’t even sound like him, he’s almost some different person entirely. Then…then I saw the ring, how it was catching the light, drawing my attention to it.

“Now, now. We can’t have you leaving now, can we? Who will take such good care of us?” he said, “No–but you do need to be punished, don’t you? Yes…a good punishment for a bad, bad slave. Now come over here, and kiss the ring of your king, like a good little bitch.”

Source: jbearv

Redneck Haunt (Part 2)

Jay woke that evening, after sleeping through his alarm, feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. He could remember that he’d been dreaming…something, but couldn’t remember any details, beyond the fact that it had been sexy. He was still pretty horny actually, but try as he might, he couldn’t manage to jack off, no matter which hot chick he was thinking of, like his dick was already spent. Frustrated, he threw on a fairly clean uniform for the smoke shop and went out, finding Kerry watching TV, legs spread wide…and was his cock hard? Jay tried to talk to him, but he seemed pretty out of it–they’d planned on throwing that basement crap out today, but with Kerry’s exhaustion and the fact that Jay had overslept, they didn’t have time. In fact, over the next few months, exhaustion became a norm for them both, and it began to show around the house, neither of them cleaning up after themselves much like they had. Kerry hoped that his boy would just leave him alone–but from the moment he stepped in his house, he was by his side, talking to him, sucking him off, kissing him, licking him from head to toe, and Jay never noticed a thing. He tired to avoid coming home, but he felt some strange compulsion to return every night, and his boy was always there, and Jay too–though Jay was looking a bit…haggard lately.

Unbeknownst to him, every morning, while Kerry was working and he was sleeping, the strange boy was in his room, sucking his cock and draining him dry. At this point, he was so exhausted he’d been caught falling asleep on the job multiple times, and was given one more chance before his boss told him he’d be fired–but the sleep at work was the only time he actually felt like he’d slept at all. He had deep circles under his eyes, but there were other strange changes going on. Jay had always been in good shape, fairly muscular with barely any fat at all on his frame, but ever since he’d stopped sleeping…it was like his muscles had been sagging and draining away, bit by bit. He had the beginnings of a gut, too. Other little things, as well–his hairline had started receding, and he’d lost interest in shaving, letting his stubble fill in as a scraggly beard. He was perpetually horny, but hadn’t jacked off in months. At first he simply hadn’t been able to cum, but now he couldn’t even get hard, and both his cock and balls seemed…smaller. He looked like he’d aged into his late thirties in a matter of months, and as scared as he was by the sudden change, he also felt almost no interest in doing anything about it.

Until one day in late fall, when things changed for the worse. Kerry arrived home, as usual, bracing himself for the boy again, terrified of his own mind, which seemed…muddled lately, like he couldn’t trust his own thoughts and memories, and he kept…confusing his dreams with his real life. He opened the front door, and nearly let out a sob of relief when he saw that the boy wasn’t there to greet him. Was he gone? Had he left? Was he better? The relief was short lived, when Jay came down the hallway, naked, cock hard as a rock, a sly grin on his bearded face, and he said, “Hey daddy, look what I can do now.”

It was him. He didn’t know how he knew…but he could sense his boy there, in Jay’s body. He tried to run, but the door slammed shut behind him, and refused to budge. “What–what did you do to him? Get out of there, boy!” Kerry said, his voice shaking, and his boy just laughed.

“Oh but Daddy, wouldn’t it be nice to fuck a real hole this afternoon?” his boy said, walking closer, “Besides, I know the real reason why you wanted him to move in here–and you should really fuck him now, because there won’t be very much left when I’m done with him.”

“No–No, this is. Get out of him, right now boy. I’m…I’m your…father, and I want to know what you’re doing to him.”Something that felt like a massive gust of wind swung into Kerry, sending him off balance. He tipped back and landed on his back–he tried to get back up, but he couldn’t lift his arms or legs. Jay’s body walked over, unzipped Kerry’s jeans, and tugged down his pants and underwear, letting his hard cock out, where it jutted straight up. “Oh, it was a nice try, but we’re still just playing our little roles. Maybe in a while, I’ll let you boss me around for a little bit…” He squatted down over Kerry’s cock, and slid down onto it, with a shudder and gasp, “Oh…oh fuck, daddy! I forgot…I haven’t felt you inside me in…in so long…”

Kerry was powerless, as the boy forced Jay to fuck himself on Kerry’s cock. It was true, what he’d said–he was gay, but in the closet, and he’d always wanted Jay. He’d never dared tell him that, given what a raging homophobe he was, but he’d always held out hope that one night, he might get him too drunk, and sneak a taste. But not this, not like this. Fuck, it did feel good though. He’d fucked a few truckers in his life, and that was about it–but this–fuck, he could, he could get used to this. With a moan, Jay groaned, and shot his load into his hand, before slurping it all up. Kerry came a minute later, deep inside Jay’s hole, and when the afterglow had faded a bit, they boy lifted Jay’s body off the cock, stumbling a bit. “Fuck, took…a bit more energy than I expected. Better get him to bed again–wouldn’t want him to catch you with your pants down daddy…right?”

Kerry remained on the floor for a while, crying a bit, wondering what, exactly was going on. He’d managed to get his pants back up by the time Jay–the real Jay–had gotten up, yawning, and headed to the kitchen to make himself some coffee. The boy followed after him, got down, and kissed his daddy on the floor. “Don’t worry daddy, I’ll be with you soon, and then you can fuck my hole for real.”

Orwell’s Demon (Sketch)

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you Orwell. This is the fourth disappearance this year–and all four of them were connected to you in some fashion or other. This is the second case where we know, for a fact, that you were the last man to speak to him,” Sheriff Hurlbane crossed his arms where he was sitting on Terry’s couch, “Now, you’ve been very cooperative, and I appreciate that. And I also know that all of this is circumstantial. But you understand how bad this looks, don’t you?”

Across from him, in an armchair, was Orwell Beckert. In his late forties, he seemed so…normal. A little overweight, clean shaven, easy going. He was a teacher at the local high school, and every student the sheriff had spoken to had had the same opinion–a good teacher, but boring as hell. But over the last few months…men had started disappearing around town–first a fellow teacher at the school, then a trucker from a local truck stop passing through. One of the students in Beckert’s homeroom, and now Beckert’s neighbor down the street. The men only had one thing in common, and that’s the normal, boring man sitting across from him, twiddling his thumbs, staring down at the carpet, looking like he was desperate to say something he couldn’t let himself say. The sheriff hadn’t wanted to believe this man could have done this–not that they had any idea what had happened to them. Their bodies hadn’t shown up anywhere, there was no evidence of them anywhere–just…gone. One day there, the next there was no sign of them anywhere. This normal man…maybe he wasn’t responsible. But he was involved–Sheriff Hurlbane knew a look of guilt when he saw one, and this was textbook–the guy was too boring to even be creative with it.

I have to tell him. I have to go to jail for this, I can’t, not anymore. I can’t let you do this anymore.

You don’t have to go to jail, Orwell. We can have fun with this one too.

No! No, please don’t, he’s a good man, he has a family!

I know what you’re thinking, Orwell, don’t forget. I know what you want. Everytime he comes over to ask you questions, that little pecker of yours gets hard. You have such a wonderful imagination, but you’re so…scared. Still, every time he’s alone with us, you think about it, about what we could do to him, just like all the rest. Come on, we can start small, can’t we? Just a little?

The sheriff leaned back into the couch, settling in. Orwell had muttered something under his breath. “What was that?”

“Nothing, please–please, just leave. You need to get out of here, sir.”

“No…No, not this time Orwell. You have something you want to tell me, something about these missing men, and I’m not leaving until you tell me,” Sheriff Hurlbane took a drag off the cigar that had appeared in his hand a moment earlier, and exhaled the smoke in Orwell’s direction, some of the smoke twining through the mustache growing from his lips, and the beard sprouting around his smooth face.

Please…don’t. Not him, please…

But doesn’t he look good like that? So much sexier, turning into a nice cigar daddy for you, I know how much you like those, Orwell.

“Okay! Okay, it was me. It was me! I…I found this necklace, alright? But it’s fucking possessed!” he said, hauling a medallion out from under his shirt, “I…I didn’t know what it would do, and I can’t take it off. Please, Sheriff, get out of here before it takes you too.”

Sheriff Hurlbane laughed around his cigar, groping his cock through his uniform pants, a wet spot of precum already soaking into the fabric. “No…No, I don’t think so Orwell, I don’t think I’m going anywhere.” He felt so…strong all of a sudden. He flexed, and heard the fabric of his uniform start to rip. With a growl, he grabbed at the shirt, clawed at it, tearing it away from himself, revealing underneath a skintight rubber tank, which he ran his gloved hand over, feeling his full gut and meaty pecs, blowing smoke through the fur sprouting all over him.

Oh…oh fuck, he’s so…fucking sexy…why, why him? He didn’t…didn’t deserve this.

He didn’t deserve it, but this is what you wanted Orwell, I know this is what you want.

I–I didn’t think it could happen, it was just…just supposed to be a fantasy…

You want the rest though, don’t you? I can feel how hard you are, how much your cock is aching in your pants. You want to see it, you want to see him. He wants you too, you know. Look at how he’s looking at you, through the smoke. Officer Hurlbane knows what you want–what you need. He wants to give it to you, he wants to help you, Orwell. He knows how much you want to be punished.

I…I do…deserve to be punished.

Yes, you do, for telling the truth like that, for trying to tell him about me.

“You were a bad boy, Orwell,” Hurlbane said, his voice suddenly deeper, with an edge like charcoal, his eyes suddenly red, and he stood up from the couch. The rubber top suddenly was lined red, and his uniform pants tightened, becoming rubber, the crotch opening, allowing a massive, foot long cock to fall free, dribbling cum onto the carpet. “Bad boy, trying to tell me the truth. But that’s ok, Officer Hurlbane will teach you a lesson, won’t I, boy?”

Orwell whimpered, tried to get up from the chair but tripped–he looked down at himself and found he was naked, aside from the necklace around his neck which had tighted around his neck like a collar. “No…God no.”

“There’s no god here, Orwell, only your real Master. Now lick my boots pig, and then I’m gonna shove these thick fists in your hole until you scream,” Hurlbane said, shoving the toe of his rubber wader in Orwell’s mouth, “Hurry up, before I burn my way through this one too.”

Mr. Lear’s Buddy (Part 2)

***Warning*** This is a bit graphic with a tale auto-erotic asphyxiation, but it’s almost Halloween, what do you really expect from me?

There was a rumor, at the time, going around the school, that something had happened to the school’s janitor, Mr. Lear, over the summer. Of course, everyone at the school knew he’d died; the administration had announced that at the opening assembly. Everyone had liked Mr. Lear–sure he was a old fart, but he’d been silly and made friends with any number of students during his many years working at the school, and it had been a blow to the community. The old man had always claimed to be a magician, but all of tricks were just sleight of hand–although none of the students had ever been able to catch him at it, in all of these years. He’d also been…accused of some odd things over the years, but no one seemed to care much, and they were generally forgotten quickly. That said, his death over the summer was the greatest mystery of all.

The official story was a heart attack at home, and no one had any evidence that that wasn’t the case, but the rumor going around was that Mr. Lear had, in fact, died in the school itself. The more scandalous versions alleged that he’d hanged himself in the gym locker room–and the version students only dared whisper was that he’d died with his hand around his cock, jacking off–just like some people had heard this senior, Terry Winters, had done at home two years earlier. Such a nasty rumor would only get a foothold, of course, if it hadn’t been at least…a little plausible. Mr. Lear had been a nice guy, but he’d also been a bit of a creep at times. The school administration tried to tamp down the story, which only made it spread faster.

Buddy had heard some of this, but he hadn’t thought much of it–he didn’t think much of anything, really. He sat the rest of the game out on the sidelines, trying to not rub his cock through his uniform pants. All he wanted was for the thoughts to stop, but being away from the game only made it harder to think about something else–because usually, Buddy wasn’t thinking about anything at all. The game finished–his team won, no thanks to him, and he got changed as quick as he could, and got home, the thoughts dimming slightly as he got away from the school, but didn’t leave entirely.

His dad was angry at him for his poor performance, and yelled and berated him for being such a terrible waste of manhood. Buddy, feeling terrible, went to bed, but didn’t dare cry. What if he wasn’t only a bad football player, and a bad man, but a faggot too? What then? It took several hours, but he eventually fell into a fitful sleep…and dreamed.

He never dreamed anything much–the few he remembered were mostly odd colors and patterns, not stories. But this–this was vivid, solid. He was standing in the boy’s locker room of the high school, by himself…or was he? There was…someone else here, someone watching him. He ran to the door, but it refused to open, and when he turned around–there, in the middle of the locker room, naked aside from a filthy jockstrap and a rope noose pulled tight around his neck, was Mr. Lear.

“Buddy?…Buddy! So you’re the one! You have no idea how glad I am to see you–to have found you,” the old man said, walking closer to him. There was something…wrong about him, something terribly wrong, with how blue his skin was, how…cold he seemed, the incredibly bloodshot eyes. “You make me feel…young again.”

“Wake…wake up. I gotta wake up!” Buddy said to himself, pinching his arm, but nothing happened.

“Oh Buddy–you aren’t in your dreams anymore–you’re in mine! And the best thing about dreams? They can last a very, very long time, you know. Why, it can feel like…years have passed, and you wake up the next morning, and it’s just hours. Isn’t the mind amazing? The spirit?”

“No–No! Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!” he screamed, the bony old hand reaching down, grabbing his arm, and Mr. Lear tugged him into an icy hug, his mind…filling with…thoughts and desires, ideas and fantasies he had never imagined. Mr. Lear pushed him down onto his knees, where Buddy pressed his face to the nasty jockstrap he had on, grinding his face into the dry, crispy fabric, his hands wrapping around his own cock, jacking it slowly.

“You see, I’d been waiting for so long, Buddy, trapped in that school, just a shadow of myself, unable to move on. I’ve been trying to get into the others, but I was so weak, it took so much magic to just keep from moving on! But you–you’re so…empty, so perfect. Dumb, empty, with no real will of your own. But I can help you, Buddy. I can give you what you’ve always been missing! Desire! Purpose! You’re head’s so empty, why, there’s plenty of room for me to make myself at home, right?”

Buddy found himself nodding. Bony fingers with long, chipped nails slipped the jockstrap down, revealing a cock, perpetually hard, blue with desperation.

“I was almost there, right on the edge. I knew I needed to stop, but it feels so good, that explosion! And magic is cheating of course–you have to…to know that death is seconds away for it to really count. But I didn’t even get there, stuck on the edge in…so many ways. I want…I want to feel it again, Buddy. I want to feel what it’s like to cum again. To fuck again, to smell a filthy jock, to seduce men and have my way with them. My magic kept me tethered to the world, but if you become my vessel, it will become yours, you know. The power to bend wills, to change minds…we can have so much fun together, you and I.”

“No…No, please…” Buddy muttered, feeling his mouth open anyway, tongue extending to taste that bulging, dead cock inches from his mouth.

“I expected you to say that, at first. But we have ages in our dreams, you know. I can show you how wonderful it can be, to say yes. I can show you so many things tonight, so many wonderful things! Come morning, we’ll be a new man together, I promise.”

Buddy screamed, mouth wide, but Mr. Lear gagged him quiet, thrusting his cock straight down the boy’s throat. He’d learn, oh he’d learn–and he had he had all the time to teach him to be the best, most perverse vessel he could possibly be.

I can’t take it anymore, I don’t—what does he want from me? How can he keep looking at me like that? And he never blinks I don’t…

Fuck, his balls are even bigger tonight, every fucking night, and the voices, I hear them, it’s for me, the seed is for me, he’s been saving it for me and all I have to do it ask, all I have to do is beg and he’ll give it to me, but I don’t want it, do I? Do I not?

Fuck, I should just kill him—I mean, I’ve killed how many people for the gang in my day? Hell, when I saw my white, pudgy cellmate I thought he’d be a pushover, a fucking weakling, but once the sun goes down…I haven’t slept a wink since I started bunking with him, and neither has he, he just lays there, stroking his cock, fondling his growing balls, and the voices…

He told me the devil keeps him safe. He told me about the people he killed, sacrificed—I didn’t believe him. But…but what if it’s true? If…If I taste him, I’ll know. If I taste him, I’ll know if he’s really the master or not. Yes, I have to know, I have to taste. Please, please can I taste your seed? Please, I have to know, give me knowledge, tell me, command me, take me please…please…

“You thought you were a sexpig, that’s what you told me, remember? Well, I don’t think you’re a sexpig–a real sexpig doesn’t care about anything other than where he’s going to get his next fix. They don’t have jobs, they don’t have brains, all they want to do is fuck and cum. Well, don’t worry, you’ll be a real sexpig soon enough.

"It’ll hurt when the demon possesses you, trust me, I know–but he won’t be there forever. It can’t live forever outside the immortal realms, but for a few nights? While we have an orgy? It’s going to feast on you, all your dreams, your intellect, your fears and worries, they’ll all be gone down the demon’s gullet before long, and then you’ll be a real sexpig for the rest of your life.

"Now how about we get this ceremony started? I’m going to have to make you cum–but all that viagra you took earlier should help. Look at you, leaking already. Your eyes say no, but I think your cock is saying yes, yes, yes…”